Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Read online

  “Apologies for my tardiness.” He bowed lower than necessary. His father’s eyes flickered over Catling before settling on him. As Gannon had hoped, Maddox would elect another time to berate him.

  “My Son, Gannon.” Maddox directed a hand toward each of his guests. “Sorah-Mur, Justice to High Ward Algar.”

  “On matters regarding the warrens,” the white-haired woman clarified with a nod.

  “You honor us with your presence.” Gannon bowed to the birdlike justice, pleased he’d captured the high ward’s attention.

  “Baltan-Elan, Captain of the City Guard,” his father continued.

  “My respects.” Gannon knew the lanky and overly pensive captain better than he cared to and mirrored his formal bow. The man was a stickler for the law, an inconvenience to most of those present. He’d also sworn a vow to Algar, a balancing act hard to comprehend.

  “Qeyon-Ava.” His father nodded to a young, smooth-faced man in a dust-blue jacket, the influencer who’d manage the meeting’s pulse. His shaved head was a rare choice for an influencer, the swirling blue woads on his bare scalp visible for all to see.

  “The turmoil here has come to the attention of our guild,” Qeyon said, his voice and demeanor serene. “I’ve traveled from Ave-Grea to offer my assistance.”

  “My respects,” Gannon said. “Welcome to Mur-Vallis.”

  He pivoted to the last man, the commander from Guardian, identifiable by his green warriors’ garb. Unlike the knee-length jackets of the tiers, the men of the southern city wore leather jerkins and tasset skirts over clothes suited to their profession. The man was built like a Fangwold crag bear, broad in body, his dark hair and trimmed whiskers threaded with silver.

  “Commander Jagur.” The man introduced himself, foregoing the surname of his birth city, a title every warrior relinquished upon swearing an oath to their guild.

  Gannon bowed. “My respects, Commander. I hadn’t expected Guardian’s presence today.”

  “I serve the realm in this matter,” the commander said with an amiable smile. The intensity in his dark eyes belied his casual manner, and Gannon recognized a man he’d find difficult to fool.

  “My apologies for our delayed start,” Maddox said and took his seat. Gannon assumed the remaining open chair, his back to Catling, an unexpected arrangement that rattled his nerves. In his haste, he hadn’t instructed her whom to shield in addition to him and his companions, or under what circumstances. Tiler would need to pay attention, and the enforcer wasn’t a man famous for his impeccable judgment.

  If the influencer soothed the assembly, Gannon didn’t sense it. By the glower on his father’s face, neither did he. A good thing… probably. The enforcers smiled, so Gannon smiled.

  A guard topped off goblets with Cull Tarr wine, and Maddox nodded to the high ward’s justice. “If it pleases you, let us begin.”

  Sorah-Mur laced her thin fingers. “No doubt you are all aware of the mayhem occurring in the markets on Justice Days. You might imagine the situation displeases our high ward, and you would be entirely correct. It’s in our mutual best interests to maintain stability in the warrens, is it not?”

  The question clearly directed at the underlord, Maddox raised an eyebrow. “What pleases High Ward Algar isn’t my concern or that of my peers.” He traced his goblet’s rim with a fingertip and eyed the justice. “You assume the warrens are under our control. However, the hanging day disruptions—”

  “Justice Day, if you would,” she interrupted.

  “In the warrens, we call it them ‘hanging days,’ Justice,” Maddox snarled. “Let’s be precise, shall we?”

  Sorah’s lips thinned as her gaze turned to the influencer. The man canted his head, smooth brow creasing. Gannon dropped a hand to the side of his chair and wagged a finger. If Catling shielded his father, she needed to stop.

  “We are here for our mutual benefit,” Sorah said. “Would you rather we act without your cooperation?”

  “Justice Day, of course,” Gannon said, meeting his father’s deadly stare. “A concession in honor of our guests.”

  Maddox grunted his acquiescence. “The Justice Day disruptions interfere with business. Those in the warrens are afraid of you, of us, and of each other, and when fear runs rampant, peaceable citizens grow unpredictable. They make demands and expect us to protect them, an amenity they pay for. When they stop paying us, we stop paying the wards. One day, the wards may stop paying Algar.”

  The justice donned a mask of indignation sour enough to spoil milk. Her grimace only confirmed Gannon’s suspicion that a clip of every warren copper climbed to the highest tier. He forced a grin to match the guards.

  “I suggest”—Maddox narrowed his eyes at Gannon’s absurd smile—“that the high ward reconsider the merits of his justice against the weight of his purse. Not to mention the lives of his guards.”

  Sorah’s lips pinched as she glanced between Maddox and the influencer. Gannon lowered a hand to his seat and cleared his throat. His father’s defiance bordered on a threat, and emotional cues were skewed enough to crank heads. He tapped the chair’s frame and swiped a quick cut with two fingers, fully intending to break Tiler’s nose if the man missed it.

  Baltan had a plank up his backside, his soft-spoken demeanor taking on an edge, “As Captain of the City Guard, I assure you, I would rather serve the peace than participate in hangings and beat down riots.”

  Gannon’s father smiled his agreement, the sharp angles of his face soft as butter.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Sorah paused to sip her wine. “Peace and cooperation serve us all. To that end, High Ward Algar has advised me that continued disruptions on Justice Days will result in increased hangings and in the closure of the warrens’ markets. Surely a hardship on your people.”

  “So fares peace and cooperation,” Gannon murmured, unable to contain his annoyance.

  The influencer, Qeyon, cocked his head, blue eyes bright with interest.

  A smile leapt to Gannon’s lips. He helped himself to a goblet of wine, silently cursing his stupidity.

  “The trouble stems from the hangings,” Commander Jagur said. “I will speak frankly here as I’ve spoken frankly to the high ward. Guardian’s charge is to protect the realm, and we aren’t inclined to interfere in tier law. However, by realm standards, your penalty of death for minor infractions, for petty thefts and trespasses, is excessive and unsustainable. You employ influencers to suppress public outrage that, in my estimation, is justified.”

  Gannon required no assistance in grinning at that one.

  The white-haired justice glowered. “The law is written to codify punishments. Exceptions dilute its integrity. If we make accommodations for one prisoner, why not the next? Our laws aren’t arbitrary, Commander, and they apply with equal force to every soul residing in the province. They must be obeyed by all, or they serve none. Justice provides a framework within which we all prosper.”

  “A reasonable argument.” Maddox relaxed back in his chair. “Harsh punishment is an effective deterrent in the warrens as well.”

  The Guardian commander narrowed his eyes at the influencer, and if he had an opinion regarding the interference, he held his tongue.

  Sorah sharpened her beady eyes. “Our high ward commands you to bring the markets under control, Maddox. By any means possible, you will maintain order in the warrens.”

  “It will be done,” Maddox smiled, waving away any objections.

  The meeting wasn’t progressing as Gannon had hoped. He twisted politely aside and coughed into his hand with a grimace for Tiler and Catling. The girl brightened and waved. Tiler wore a smile plastered to his face with a trowel. Gannon turned back to the table, dropped a hand, and beckoned for the shield. He needed his father free of the influencer’s spell. Casual threats from Maddox now seemed preferable to getting stumped in the ass by the justice.

  The commander rubbed his whiskered chin, and addressed Baltan, “What’s the city guard’s charge in this?”
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  “The high ward has barred us from the markets on Justice Days.” Baltan turned a hard eye on the justice. “We are to protect the first tier.”

  Jagur glared at him. “In disregarding the warrens, you escalate the danger for all involved.”

  The captain faced his peer. “I follow the law, Commander Jagur, to the extent I am allowed to do so and even when I disagree. I do not make the laws, control their interpretation, or approve of their selective application.”

  “The tier guard’s intervention requires discretion,” Sorah said.

  Jagur redirected his glower to the justice. “You risk your credibility and effectiveness if you allow wards and guards to decide what laws they will or will not follow.”

  “The high ward dictates that the tiers take priority,” Baltan said. “I cannot disregard my orders.”

  Gannon glanced across the table at his father’s patient amiability. The underlord floated along on a river of influence while the realm’s elite quibbled among themselves. “Is it possible you have a rogue influencer?”

  Every face at the table swung to the young influencer.

  “You’re proposing that one of the emotives is a traitor?” Sorah asked.

  Qeyon leaned forward and raised a hand, whether in a bid for permission to speak or to silence the suggestion, Gannon couldn’t guess. A veil of peacefulness seemed to settle over the entire table, evidenced by the collective sigh.

  “Influencers swear binding oaths.” Qeyon’s gaze drifted across each face before coming to rest on Gannon’s. “I understand this trouble began with the execution of a Farlander. The high ward’s emotives believe their influence lost its effectiveness on the man.”

  “On two clansmen,” Gannon clarified.

  “You were there?” At Gannon’s nod, Qeyon continued, “Since that day, they report disruptions to their influence occurring on most hanging… Justice Days, and the disturbances have escalated over the past year.”

  “It’s grown beyond our control,” Sorah said, all irritation absent from her voice. She and the captain nodded at each other like old chums.

  Qeyon’s attention remained on Gannon. “The challenge is not a matter of who is influencing or their level of skill. The high ward’s influencers are adept emotives. And I doubt your populace is developing a widespread immunity. To the contrary, it seems someone has found a way to block us.”

  Sorah’s serenity collapsed, and her chin receded into her neck. Either Catling shielded her or Qeyon had modified his sway. “Ellegeance’s entire power structure could crumble. There must be another explanation.”

  “Not that I can fathom.” Qeyon sat back in his chair.

  “An interesting challenge.” Commander Jagur chuckled. “Ruling without influence; I wonder how you might manage it.”

  “Impossible.” Justice Sorah thinned her lips. “Our laws would prove unenforceable.”

  “Perhaps your laws require adjustment,” Gannon suggested. A glance at his father showed a man free of any intent to murder his son. Perhaps it was better this way after all. He could speak his mind and worry about his life later.

  “If the hangings continue,” Baltan said, “and influence is ineffective, the riots will escalate. I cannot guarantee the safety of the tiers.”

  “Speculation serves no purpose,” Sorah stated. “We simply locate and eliminate the offenders. I’ll inform the high ward of our intent to search the warrens. The tier guard will see to it. Torture the truth out of them if necessary.”

  “I needn’t remind you,” Jagur said, “that torture is against Ellegean law. Your guards must obey the law.”

  “We’ll rewrite the law.” Sorah waved away the obstacle.

  “My men will not engage in torture,” Baltan informed her.

  Sorah huffed. “Then we’ll use influencers.”

  The commander blew out a breath and frowned. “Justice—”

  “My friends.” Qeyon’s hand rose. Every chest among the bickering elite exhaled a breath, and Catling giggled.

  “Perhaps,” Gannon said, drawing their attention. “I can use my connections to investigate what’s happening and put an end to it.”

  “Of course,” Sorah perked up and beamed at the underlord. “A swift resolution would be welcome. You have the connections. The high ward would be most grateful if we could nip this little weed before it flowers.”

  Gannon’s father nodded. “Delighted to help.”

  “Then we’ve reached an agreement.” Sorah finished her wine, smug satisfaction curling her lips. “The high ward and all the tiers will be in your debt.”

  “Yes, about the debt.” Gannon smiled pleasantly. “Should I be successful, there are a few allowances I wish made for the warrens.”

  “Piles of gold, no doubt,” Sorah chuckled.

  Gannon felt the influencer’s gaze bore a hole into the side of his head. “The high ward can keep his gold. I want an audience with Algar to discuss the warrens’ rights.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Waves of liquid heat shimmered through the air as if the warrens had sunk beneath the Blackwater’s current. The hangings would resume at the bell, and Catling melted in the Springseed sun, sweat dribbling down her temples like wax left too long by a flame. Still a child at eleven years, she wore her underdress without jacket and leggings. All the warrens’ children indulged in some level of undress, the youngest nearly naked but for rag sandals to keep their feet from baking on the pavers.

  She glanced at Gannon. He glowered in the tier’s cooler shadow, his mood darkening with each passing week. Nothing had come of his negotiation—no further word, no signal of interest, and certainly no invitation from the high ward. He’d suffered his father’s wrath for his unsanctioned meddling and blamed his pluck on influence. Ava-Grea’s emotive had turned them into marionettes, a detail which increased his father’s fury.

  Her presence in the den hadn’t come up, the only outcome providing them both with a trace of relief. Confusion unraveled her own memories. The visit had felt gracious, peaceful, and skewed, the discussion drifting outside her comprehension.

  If the high ward had any response to Gannon’s offer, it was to stretch the necks of twice as many souls. The last hanging day he’d lined them up three across. Catling had created a stir, shielding whole swaths of spectators and snaring the victims’ families. The riots had lasted two days with guards shooting crossbow bolts from the first tier into the crowds. The warrens had hunkered down for half the week, the markets abandoned.

  “Catling!” Tiler beckoned from the shade, holding up a cup.

  She wiped the sweat from her face with her hem and joined him in the shadows. The warrens’ cool dampness invited a shiver, and she accepted the drink. “Oh, lissom juice.” A smile snuck to her lips, the tartness refreshing when watered down. She looked up at the two men who appeared to be in the midst of quarreling. Gannon scowled at the sunlit market while Tiler eyed her and twisted his face into a comical grimace.

  “The man’s a raging cock-bender,” Tiler informed her, his eyes rolling at Gannon.

  “If we stop now, Algar’s won.” Gannon spat against the rickety wall propping him up.

  “He’s going to hang more this time than the last,” Tiler argued. “We keep wrecking his show, he’ll hang half the warrens to make his point.”

  “I’m not backing down,” Gannon murmured, sparing a glance for Catling. “We surrender, he’s won. Nothing changes. I’m not living under his heel for the rest of my life. None of us are.” He raised a palm to stop Tiler from uttering another word. The justice’s voice droned above the market, reading the charges against those balancing at the tier’s lip.

  “Go on, Catling,” Gannon said, his frown replaced by a weary smile. “We’ll be here.”

  The cup in Tiler’s hand, Catling shielded herself and wandered back into the light. Stifling heat wrapped her like a thick mitt, and the bright sun forced a squint. The market reeked of rotten garbage, sewage, and sweat. Influence soothed th
e haggling crowd but couldn’t quell the withering weather.

  “Ordan of the Mur-Vallis warrens,” the justice intoned, hand raised for attention, “age fifteen, stands accused of stealing shoes from the docks. He has admitted his guilt and accepted the punishment of death.”

  The crowd clapped, and the mob clamoring for the bodies to drop sent up a cheer. Catling despised them, their clawing fingers and hungry greed. Perhaps she would shield them first, let them observe their own behavior before she severed the influence among the families. She squinted up at the six placid people edging the tier, nooses around their throats.

  “Keela of the Mur-Vallis warrens,” the justice continued. Catling’s hand snapped up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Age twenty-seven, stands accused…”

  “No, no,” Catling stammered.

  “…of theft on the third tier.”

  “No!” Catling cried as she darted between the idlers blocking her way.

  The justice scanned the crowd and droned on, “She has admitted her guilt and accepted the punishment of death.”

  “No, Mum!” Catling shoved her way into the mob waiting to tear at the bodies for coins. She raised her arms as if she might catch Keela’s fall. “Mum, no!” Her mother smiled down at her, a sweetness to her face Catling had never before seen. “No!” she screamed.

  The justice peered over the tier’s edge, his frown alongside the curious face of a guard.

  A pair of hands grabbed Catling from behind and hoisted her from her feet. She gasped and screamed, kicking and wriggling in the iron grasp. “Let me go. Mum! Keela. No. Keeeela!”

  Fumbling, her captor rearranged his grip, an arm around her waist, squeezing her breath. Her ear stung as a hand scraped the side of her face and clamped over her mouth. It pressed against her teeth, hurting her cheeks. She couldn’t breathe and flung her head back, striking something hard as her hands fought the stranglehold on her waist. Her feet flailed, heels pounding against running legs.